Tell Me You Care
by serenadreams
Summary: AU. She's broken in more ways than one, and he has a desperate need to try and fix her. Or, the one where Felicity's father never left. Mature themes.
1. prologue

**AN: The irony of writing a story about overcoming drug use while high is not lost on me.**

 **Anyway... I've got a few chapters of this written, I'm honestly not sure what it is at this point. It's going to be a darker story than my others for this fandom. Even NCHYH. But that's where I'm at in my life right now, and as always I use writing as an outlet.**

 **As far as trigger warnings go, there will be substance abuse, and a couple of descriptions of sexual violence. Please be cautious.**

Prologue.

 _If scars are for the living_  
 _Then I could be forgiven_

She's a mess the first time Oliver sees her. Tangled blonde hair and too much skin are hardly a rare sight in his club, but she makes him look twice. Not in desire, for her beauty is something he only notices in passing. It's her sheer vulnerability that catches his attention.

She's sprawled over one of the couches in the back, eyes unfocused and face vacant. Probably barely over eighteen, definitely too young to be in his club, and definitely high. She's surrounded by people, but she looks like the loneliest person in the world. Her makeup is smudged and even from a distance he can see the tremor in her fingers as she takes the shot that's thrust into her hands. She downs it obediently and lets her head loll back against the cushions.

All of that might be passed off as nothing more than yet another Vegas girl who's hit the scene a little too hard. But she looks out of her depth and frightened, even as she willingly allows her companion to paw at the hem of her dress. It's a broken look that he recognizes too well. A look that haunts him every night as his mind evades sleep.

So he doesn't call a bouncer over to check her ID and kick her out as he originally intended. She no doubt has a fake one anyway, and if it was good enough to get her in the door, there's not much more they can do. Instead, he makes his way over to her, shoving his hands in his pockets to try and appear a little less like an authority figure, and a little more like somebody she might trust.

The closer he gets, the worse she looks. Her hair is unwashed and hangs dully around her face, brown roots fading into blonde. Her makeup looks like it was done days ago and has just been added to every night, and she clearly hasn't seen anything resembling a nutritious meal in a long time.

He crouches down in front of her, ignoring the questioning looks from the other patrons, and snaps his fingers until her drifting gaze finds his. Her eyes are a soft blue, and so, _so_ sad.

"Are you alright?" He asks and hides his irritation when the man beside her huffs and tightens his grip on her thigh.

"She's fine, man."

Oliver grits his teeth and finally turns his attention to the other man. He vaguely recognizes him as a small time dealer who's known to hang around the clubs looking for business and sampling his own product.

"I'm sure you're aware of our no drug policy. I wonder what my friend would find if he checked your pockets?" He nods his head towards Diggle's imposing figure, leaning against the bar not too far away.

It doesn't take long for the group to melt back after that, leaving him alone with the blonde, who still hasn't said a word.

She's watching him though, has been throughout the whole exchange, her gaze a mixture of confusion from whatever drugs she's on, and uncertainty over his actions.

He gently grabs her arm and pulls her to her feet, holding her steady as she stumbles. He guides her upstairs and into his office, closing the door and shutting out the excessive noise of the club below. She looks like she's barely aware of what's happening, so he sits her down on the couch and grabs a bottle of water from the mini fridge.

"Drink this."

He opens the cap for her, and she takes a few sips, shaky fingers picking at the label. Still she doesn't say a word.

"Is there someone I can call to come and get you?" He asks, and the question finally gets him a proper reaction.

She freezes and her eyes meet his, wide and dilated.

"No." She mumbles, eyeing him with a slightly baffled look on her face. Like she can't figure out why he wants to help her.

Honestly he's not entirely sure himself. Of course it's partially because he doesn't want underage narcotic use in his club, nor does he want said underage girls to be date raped in a bathroom by low life dealers… But all of that could have been dealt with by a bouncer. Once he spotted her, all he had to do was get one of his guys to call her cab and send her on her way. That's their policy. But instead he brought her up here, away from the chaos and noise of the floor, something in him desperately wanting to protect her from it all.

She looks away from him and blinks sluggishly, slouching into the back of the sofa. He sighs and runs a hand through his short hair. It's barely midnight, they won't be closing for hours.

"Okay, you can stay up here and sleep it off for a while." She's already pretty much out of it, but she seems to be hearing him. "No one will bother you here, alright?"

She gives him something resembling a nod, before curling up into a ball on the cushions and letting her eyes drift shut.

He watches her for a second, taking in her thin form, the dress that's cut away at the ribs to reveal the edge of a silvery white scar, the chipped nail polish on broken fingernails. She barely looks old enough to be out of school. She should be home with her parents, being yelled at for staying out too late, not here, letting herself be so vulnerable in a world that will do more to hurt her than it will to help.

With a heavy sigh he leaves her there, putting her out of his mind and pasting his charming host persona back across his face. And if his thoughts drift to another girl, a girl with darker hair and soulful eyes with that same broken vulnerability… Well he tries to put that out of his mind too.

As he always does.


	2. darkness

_**A day in the life of Felicity.**_

 _ **Trigger warnings for drug use.**_

* * *

 _Darkness did try_  
 _Oh, it hanged in the night_  
 _I've been weak and giving_

Felicity wakes up alone in an unfamiliar room, head pounding, mouth dry. It's an experience she's grown all too familiar with. Mornings when she wakes feeling safe and secure are a rarity these days. Running a hand through her knotted hair, fingers catching in tangles, she sits up and looks around, taking in the office furniture, the dimmed lights, the leather jacket thrown over the back of a chair. It smells clean in a way she's unused to. No lingering cigarette smoke from days past, no faint odor of unwashed bodies and bad hangovers.

There's a bottle of water sitting on the coffee table in front of her, and she reaches for it, greedily drinking until her headache fades just a little. Uncaring of what could be hiding in the clear liquid, chances are she was roofied already, and if she'd been left alone she figured whoever took her had had enough. Once she's done, she stands, ankles wobbling in heels that are a little too high for an empty stomach and an intoxicated brain. She doesn't know how she got there, and she doesn't care. She doesn't care about much these days.

It's hard to find the will to care about yourself when no one else does.

The ice she smoked earlier has mostly worn off and she's left in that horrible in between state where she's neither sober nor high, and the world is harsh and surreal all at once.

She tugs her short black dress down until it covers a little more of her thighs, shivering slightly in the cool air. On a whim she grabs the leather jacket hanging on the desk chair and pulls is on, wrapping it around her small figure before she leaves. It's hardly the first thing she's stolen, and besides, whoever brought her into this room probably fucked her while she slept anyway, so the jacket can be considered her payment.

She stumbles out into a hallway, following the sounds of a nightclub down a spiral staircase and into a place she recognizes as Verdant. It's a vaguely familiar club, but not one she frequents often. They're stricter on IDs than a lot of other places, and their bouncers tend to be quite vigilant when it comes to drug use. It's more of an upper class place. The Vegas experience for the rich and famous, just gritty enough, but not so seedy that anyone's uncomfortable. Her usual haunts are on the other end of that spectrum.

Pushing her way through the throbbing crowds, Felicity keeps her head down and searches for the exit. She's not sure what time it is, but the music is hurting her ears and even though she doesn't really have anywhere to go, she needs to get away from it.

A wandering hand grabs her ass as she passes, but she ignores it, her eyes seeking out the neon red signs off to the side of the dance floor. She can feel people watching her as she shoves past them, well put together women in expensive dresses, men in suits that cost more than she's ever had in her life. She doesn't fit in here, and it's a feeling she hates. It's why she never comes to this side of town. She hates to stand out, to be the one that doesn't match the rest. Finally breaking free of the crowds, she slips down a corridor, breathing a sigh of relief when she finally reaches the fire exit. Pushing the metal bar until the door swings open, she takes a deep breath of the cold, desert air, and without a glance behind her, disappears out into the night.

The streets of Vegas are a mixture of opulence and poverty. Filled with dreamers and burnouts alike. Felicity was born and raised in this broken town. Her earliest memories are of filling coloring books behind a casino bar while her mother flirted with the customers. She hates it here. Hates the dirt and the darkness.

The darkness that's filled every corner of her life and is slowly wearing away at her soul.

She bundles the stolen jacket tighter around her body, her feet aching as she walks aimlessly away from Verdant. It's a long walk back to her house from this part of town.

Her house. A place she never calls home anymore. Even in her head. It's a dark place. A place of fear and hatred. But on nights like this, it's too late to find somewhere else to go. It's almost light already and no one cares whether or not she'll have a safe bed for the remainder of the early hours.

Catching sight of a street name she recognizes, she takes a turn to the left, tuning out the jeers of some kids passing her on the other side of the road. After a while she gives up on her heels, pausing to lean against a wall and pull them off, holding onto the fraying straps and continuing on barefoot.

It feels like hours before she finds herself standing in front of the dilapidated house she used to call home. The lights are out, the windows dark, and she breathes a sigh of relief before making her way to the back door. It's rarely locked, it's not like they have anything worth stealing, everyone on the street is as broke as each other. There's no point in locking up. She pushes it open, cringing as the hinges screech their protest. But there's no answering noise. Her father's probably in an alcohol induced stupor in the basement, but she still tiptoes her way up to her room, just in case.

Closing the bedroom door behind her, she quickly grabs the chair she keeps on hand and tucks it under the handle. A routine she put into place years ago. And without bothering to remove her makeup or dress, collapses into her unmade bed, curling up on her side, and falling back into a fitful sleep.

Life hasn't been easy on Felicity Smoak. There was once a time when she was a happy, bright-eyed little girl, with a penchant for babbling and a love for computers. But that was a long time ago. Before the world saw fit to tarnish a soul that was previously so light.

And now she drifts. It's a simple as that. The past and the present and the future become nothing but minutes, slowly passing by, another to add to the long list of moments she wishes had never happened. It's a sad, lonely way to live, and sometimes, when the haze of drugs or alcohol fades away, and she's left with a clear mind, she finds herself yearning for the way things used to be.

For the feel of her mothers arms around her when she was sad. For the comfort her home provided. For the feeling of safety and warmth that happy children have.

It's a distant memory now, one that hurts too much to think about. So she buries herself back in oblivion. Hiding from the pain because she's too broken to face it. Too lost to recover from it.

A crash wakes her a few hours later, and she starts, eyes flying open and her heart thudding against her ribs. Scrambling out of bed, she grabs for a pair of jeans and pulls them on, quickly replacing her dress with an oversized t-shirt. The stolen leather jacket pulled on over it.

Footsteps thump against the stairs and Felicity runs to her window, quickly climbing out and scrambling down the worn trellace with confident steps. It's something she's done many times before. Easily choosing the possibility of breaking bones with a fall, than from what awaits her on the other side of her bedroom door.

The midday sun beats down on the desolate streets of the neighborhood. Harsh light showing up every bit of grime that was hidden in the dark. Worn sneakers scuff against the cracked sidewalk as Felicity mindlessly heads to one of the few places that will welcome her.

They used to go to Jenny's Diner all the time when she was little. According to the photo albums hidden in her bedroom, she spent her third and fourth birthdays there, eating chocolate cake of red checked napkins. Her mom was always good friends with Jenny, and even now, when few people from her old life want anything to do with her, Jenny does what she can. Providing a cup of coffee and a slice of pie even when Felicity doesn't have two cents to rub together.

The bell above the door rings as she walks in, and she offers the portly woman behind the counter a small smile. The place has changed a lot over the years, but then again, what hasn't? The linoleum floor is stained with age, the flowers on the tables replaced by plastic imitations. Once upon a time it would be packed on a Saturday lunchtime, filled with construction workers and families. But no one's bothered to fix the roads around here in years, and families have moved to nicer neighborhoods. Instead the tables are mostly empty, save for a couple of kids nursing hangovers and Earl, the local bum who still thinks it's 1963.

Felicity sinks into the soft bench of her favorite booth, tucked away in the back, and lets her eyes fall closed. Her head is pounding and she knows it won't be long before she goes looking for something to dull the ache.

A mug is set down in front of her, and she mumbles her gratitude, take a gulp of the hot coffee and relishing the burn as it slides down her throat.

"What'll it be today sweetheart? We got a lovely blueberry pie in this morning!" The older woman smiles down at her and Felicity shakes her head.

"You know I can't pay, Jenny." They do this every time, have the same conversation over and over, a little bit of familiarity in a world that's grown too harsh.

"You know that don't matter here, love." Jenny says, patting her hand. "I'll bring you the blueberry. You'll like it."

She's not all that hungry, but she knows better than to turn down food when it's offered.

The bell chimes again, and Felicity turns to watch the new arrivals, her eyes lighting up in recognition at the sight of the two seedy looking men ambling into the diner.

They sit at a table not too far away, placing their orders before one makes his way over to her.

"You need something Fliss?" He asks, sliding into the booth beside her. The smell of stale cigarettes and burnt toast assaulting her senses.

"What have you got?"

"Pills. Good ones."

She slips her hand under the table, palm open.

"I'll need to hit you back tomorrow." She mutters and he shakes his head.

"You already owe me, blondie." He reminds her, his cold brown eyes sending a shiver up her spine.

"So I'll cash in my food stamps. Come on Nick, you know I'm good for it."

It's pathetic. She's pathetic. But when she feels the cool press of a small plastic baggie in her open hand, she lets out a sigh of relief.

"Tomorrow." Nick stands and leans over the table, his statement leaving no room for argument.

She nods her head and he walks back to his friend, just as Jenny returns with a large slice of blueberry pie, a disapproving frown on her face.

"You know I don't like having that nonsense in my diner Felicity." She says, placing the plate on the table with a little more force than necessary.

"Just friends catching up." Felicity shrugs and the older woman sighs, shaking her head and giving her a look that makes her chest ache.

A look that reminds her of the way a mother might scold a child for getting a bad grade in school, or getting into an argument with a friend. But it's been a long time since she cared about disappointing people. She does what she can to survive, and that's all she can do.

The pie is good, but the pill she downs with her coffee is better.

It's hours later when Felicity stumbles down the steps of a different club, her mind pleasantly foggy, a dress thrown over her skinny frame.

She hated these places before. Before it all went to hell.

But now they're a reprieve from the world. No one cares how fucked up she is down here, with the lights and the smoke and the intoxicated throngs of people, she blends in perfectly. No one cares that she cries herself to sleep and is so high she can hardly see straight. No one cares that she's had her heart broken in so many ways she's sure it will never be whole again. They just care about the length of her skirt, and whether she'll let them grind against her in the sweaty jumble of bodies on the dance floor.

The music drowns out her thoughts and the touches let her damaged body belong to someone else for a while.

It's pleasant in a horrible sort of way.

Losing herself in oblivion is the only way she survives these days. She knows if she let herself focus for too long, she'd end it. The self loathing and the despair would crawl through her veins until she had nothing left but a way out. Her mind just loves to betray her. Loves to fight her every step of the way. Push her closer and closer to the edge.

Well she's there now. On the edge, between death and destruction, both equally tragic, both equally inevitable.

Vegas is full of people like her. Those who found their way to the city with hopes of fulfilling their dreams, seeing their name up in lights, only to find themselves cast out, unwanted, used. And those who've never known anything else. Who grew up with the legacy of the worst side of the Vegas scene. The very bottom of the barrel, the dregs of society that no one wants. The ones who fell through the cracks and had no one there to pull them back out.

A commotion at the bar has her pulling away from the hands that are steadily creeping up her dress. A dark haired girl is yelling at someone, repeatedly hitting him in the chest even as he screams back. Although the man who towers over her is unfamiliar to Felicity, she knows the girl.

Helena has it about as rough as Felicity, both so far off the rails they're headed for a wreck. They met a few months ago at a deal, and ended up pooling their money for a hit.

She makes her way over to the other girl, just as her companion raises a hand and strikes her across the face. Helena falls against the bar and someone else jumps in to pull her assailant away. A small trickle of blood trails down her chin, and she yells after him, a hand pressed to her cheek, tears glimmering in her eyes.

Felicity reaches her quickly and grabs her arm, tugging her towards the exit, the lights swirling prettily before her eyes. They're not friends, but they have an understanding. They move in the same circles and will help each other out when needed. It's about the closest thing to a friendship either of them have.

It's about the closest they're capable of.

"Who was that guy?" Felicity asks, when they make it away from the noise and back onto the street.

"Who cares." Helena mumbles, pushing her hair out of her eyes, a pronounced tremor evident in her fingers.

"What are you on?"

"E, I think." The taller girl shrugs and Felicity nods, looking around them. There are a few people milling about, some lining up to get into the club, some trying to find their way home, some just out on the prowl.

"I'm gonna head to Sin's. You wanna come?" The words are slurred, and Helena's already started walking down the street, Felicity follows, not bothering to reply.

Sin's is a good place to crash from time to time. The girl grew up on the streets and her benefit-funded apartment is a dump, but she lets pretty much anyone pass out on her floor if they show up before three.

The girls lean on each other as they walk, the silence only interrupted by the sounds of the city. Car alarms and police sirens, the occasional holler from a guy who appreciates their minimal clothing.

Felicity finds her mind wondering to the other side of town as they stumble down the road. Remembering where she woke up in the early hours of the morning, wondering how the rich and privileged would be spending their evening. Probably enjoying the professional DJ and $11 cocktails that Verdant provides.

She wonders what it's like to go partying for _fun_ , not because without the haze you think you might die. It's a foreign concept.

The streets seem to wriggle before her eyes, wavy lines and shapes blurring her already poor eyesight. She blinks a few times, attempting to clear her vision, the drugs in her system singing through her veins like syrup. And for a second, she swears she sees someone else there. Someone besides Helena, who's gazing at the smoggy sky and mumbling something about dogs. Someone with blue eyes and a kind voice, and an unobtrusive touch that's gentler than any she's ever known from a man. Someone who made her feel safe.

But then the image fades and she's tripping into the rickety elevator at Sin's trying to keep her eyes open long enough to get through the door and find a clean patch of carpet to collapse on.


End file.
